


The Wee Small Hours

by DizzyDrea



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Gen, Insomnia, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On nights like tonight, all he can do is pray for the dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wee Small Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [numb3rs100](http://numb3rs100.livejournal.com/) August Rewind Prompts - Insomnia, Pill, Swallow, Bed
> 
> I haven't written a drabble in a while, and now I've written what amounts to five in 24 hours. With the Muse lately, it's feast or famine. So, enjoy it while it lasts. The exercise here was to see if I could get my David Muse working. And because I figure David's got his demons, even if he pretends otherwise.
> 
> Disclaimer: Numb3rs belongs to The Barry Schindel Company, Scott Free Productions, CBS Television Studios and a lot of other people who aren't me. I'm doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

**Insomnia**

David's alarm clock is mocking him from the night stand: 3:32AM. The street light outside slashes its amber glow across his room, broken only by the slats of the blinds. The air is heavy, humid in a way the desert isn't supposed to be. The room is quiet—too quiet. In the silence he can hear too much; everything his mind is trying to forget and can't, and nothing of what he'd rather remember instead.

He's wide awake, and he doesn't want to be.

He's no stranger to insomnia; it strikes when it pleases and stays as long as it likes. And tonight, it'll be his constant companion, chasing away his rest, leaving only demons in its wake.

It's the life he signed on for when he accepted the invitation to join the FBI, but he never thought it would be like this. He tells people he doesn't have regrets. It wouldn't do him any good to have them anyway, because he can't change the past even if he wanted to. Most of the time, he doesn't want to. Most of the time, he can sleep peacefully.

On nights like tonight, all he can do is pray for the dawn.

~o~

**Pill**

He rises, goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He's not thirsty, but it's something to do.

He takes the water to his living room, leaning an arm against the cool glass as he rests his forehead against too-warm skin. The lights of the city twinkle beyond his balcony; people going about their lives without knowing what he knows.

He hates that he's awake while others get to sleep.

_In the wee small hours of the morning…_ the old song lyrics flit through his mind. He only wishes he were sleepless over a woman. It would be so much easier.

But no, these demons aren't wrapped in silky flesh; they're hard-edged, smelling of cordite and the iron of spilled blood.

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing away the images of death and destruction. It doesn't do any good; they crowd in anyway.

He knows he won't be sleeping tonight without help. That thought brings a grimace to his face. But he's not sleeping any other way, so tonight he accepts the sour taste of defeat and shuffles to the bathroom on leaden feet to take the pill he knows will allow him to sleep, if not rest.

~o~

**Swallow**

He stares at the label in the dim, pre-dawn light. The bottle is nearly empty, a testament to too many nights when he needed to sleep and couldn't get there any other way.

He hates how the pills make him feel, hates the sluggishness that invades his bones the next day, but he knows it's necessary. If he doesn’t sleep, he could get someone killed. It's as simple as that.

Still, he hesitates.

It won't matter that he's taken the drugs, not to his nightmares and not to his memories, the ghosts that just won't let him be. They'll come anyway, and when he's drugged up, there's no escape. It's not restful sleep he'll get, despite the fact that that's exactly what he needs.

No rest for the weary, that's what his grandmother used to say. He's beginning to think she was right.

He sighs, pops the cap off the bottle, shakes out a pill and swallows it, washing it down with the glass of water he's barely touched. He sets the bottle back on the shelf and closes the medicine cabinet as if he's on autopilot.

It's when the door swings closed that he's faced with the real nightmare.

~o~

**Bed**

His face is drawn, haggard, marked with the lines of a hundred cares that won't leave him alone.

He rubs a hand over his face, but the view doesn't change. He hardly recognizes himself in the mirror lately, and wonders when that happened.

He barely remembers the young man he used to be, bright-eyed and full of promise. The man he stares at now is world-weary and broken. He'd leave the FBI if he thought it would change anything, but this is all he knows.

Besides, who would save Colby's ass if he wasn't around? Who would force Don to toe the line when going off the reservation was faster?

Who would he be, if he weren't Special Agent David Sinclair?

He doesn’t know, and he's not sure he wants to find out.

Sighing once more, he takes one last, long look in the mirror before turning away. He heads for the bed on tired feet, slipping beneath the covers and stretching out on his back. He rests his hands on his belly and stares at the ceiling for a long minute before closing his eyes.

Sleep comes quietly, but it isn't peaceful. He knows it never will be again.

~Finis


End file.
